One by one until each dragon was slain and laid to rest.
Much like the cloudless heavens, his own night’s peace gained at last, he turned away from the little window and sought his rough pallet on the ante-room floor.
To sleep and rest his weary bones.
And dream of better days to come.
Chapter 22
Sir Marmaduke wakened well before dawn.
A light pitter of rain, a ferocious stiff neck, and his lady’s soft breath on his bare shoulder, greeted him.
When she planted wet, tickling kisses along his upper arm, he smiled and opened his good eye – to stare straight into two round and unblinking brown ones.
“Gods!” He leapt to his feet, instantly awake.
Leo yelped as loudly, any friendly overtures he may have been trying to initiate, forgotten. The little dog streaked from the ante-room before Marmaduke could even scowl at him.
He did frown into the semi-darkness as he yanked on his braies. His hose, tunic and boots were donned as quickly, his sword belt girded on with equal haste.
And all the while, he pretended not to notice Leo’s offended glare boring holes in him from Lady Caterine’s bed. The sneaky bugger even had the cheek to curl himself most proprietarily against her bared thigh.
Marmaduke’s frown deepened as he tried not to stare at the sleek expanse of naked leg, temptation revealed by the careless whim of the mussed bedcoverings.
An unexpected delight that caught him off guard and propelled him right out the door before he forgot his desire to woo her gently. Just now, he could so easily heed his baser urges.
God forbid.
Had she wakened and peered at him from sleepy blue eyes, her lips full and rosy-sweet, her lovely leg so innocently displayed, he may well have done more than bid her a good morrow.
Glad she slept so deeply, he set off down the passageway, making for the stairs to the great hall. Once below, he went straight to the laver set into the back wall of a shadowed alcove.
Blessed relief was almost his.
Stepping up to the stone basin, he thrust his hands into the freezing water and splashed a goodly amount on his face.
Then, his features carefully schooled lest some stealthy varlet be watching him, he scanned the hall.
All slept.
Relieved, he cocked his head, listening to the assorted snores, wheezes, and other indefinable noises coming from the men still slumbering on their pallets.
No one would stir for a while.
And so…
Allowing himself a pained smile, he pulled his hose away from his body and dashed ice-cold water onto his unruly manhood.
Purging deliverance came swift and sweet.
This relieved, he readjusted his hose and continued on his way, the fearsome look on his face a warning to anyone fool enough to admit having seen him tend himself in such an absurd manner.
And if James Keith so much as lifted a brow over the damp stain on the front flap of his tunic, he’d forget his assurances that they’d train with blunted swords and insist on instructing the young lord with real blades.
The razor sharp variety capable of splitting a hair.
A curse and the clatter of steel skittering across stone alerted him to James’ presence in the undercroft the moment he reached the bottom of the dank stairwell that curled down to Dunlaidir’s lowest level.
